Try Not To Breathe
by SuperSonic21
Summary: "Dean. First of all, I'm sorry. I honestly wanted to come out of this alive. But we both know better than anyone that you can't always get what you want." Sam writes a letter for Dean to read if he dies in the trials. 1500 words. Set after 8x16 'Remember The Titans'. Second Chapter: Dean finds the letter and confronts Sam, after 8x20 'Pac-Man Fever'. 1900 words.
1. Chapter 1

_**AN: **__again, an idea that wouldn't leave me alone. Posted on Tumblr originally. Hope you enjoy! _

* * *

Pillow slips. Who'd have thought something so small could lead to such a huge accidental epiphany?

His mind wandered as he stared at the blank sheet of lined paper in front of him; it was cast back to the equally white pillows he lay his head on every night. But when he'd woken up in the morning, they weren't so white anymore: he noticed red spots on them, and figured he must have been choking in his sleep. His chest felt as if it were rattling with every breath; it felt tight, on top of that, when he realised:

_Dean will see this. Dean will ask questions_.

That was when he realised that he couldn't hide this forever. Sure, this time around, he could offer to selflessly do all the laundry, so as to craftily avoid Dean seeing the pillow slips, but eventually he'd come undone. Whether it was sooner or later, there was a good chance – _even after his little pep-talk about wanting to make it out of these trials alive _– that he was going to keel over once they were done. Not before they were done (they were getting done, he owed Dean that, at least) but maybe afterwards. And that would be something he couldn't hide.

But he could at least make provisions for it. He wouldn't leave Dean with nothing but an '_I'm sorry_' and a last breath. He didn't even want to leave him a short note, because every time he considered it, '_missed you, love you!' _and the scent of freshly-baked cookies sprang to his mind from a terrible, sad place in his past. He wanted to explain himself properly; to help Dean understand why he needed to hide this from him until the trials were done.

He snapped back to the present when he realised he'd already put his pen to the paper; had already scrawled, _Dean. First of all, I'm sorry. I honestly wanted to come out of this alive. But we both know better than anyone that you can't always get what you want. _

He blinked, startled for a moment. But he shook it off, and continued writing. That part could stay at least.

_I'm writing this in late February. I'm sick and I know that I'll either complete these trials and live, or complete them and die – that's why I'm writing you right now. I need to explain that I wasn't lying to you by hiding this. It's just that, if you knew, you'd call the whole thing off – the trials, the responsibility of me saving your ass for a change_. _And honestly, Dean, I don't want you to suffer through this. _

He paused for a moment, wondering if what he'd written was too chick-flick for his brother's taste. He decided it was just the truth, in the end. Last time . . . Back at Stull, he hadn't got to say much more than a few words, and he hadn't felt they'd been enough to express everything he wanted to say to Dean. Sorry, thank you, and goodbye. All he'd managed was –

'_It's gonna be okay, Dean.'_

He continued his letter: _I guess we're about even now – I mean, I broke the world once, and I jumped into the pit to solve it. But even then when I came back, I was this_

He struggled to find words more eloquent than 'soulless dickbag' for his final letter to his brother. He smirked despite his grim task, and mediated his language. What if Dean had kids he wanted to show this to? He couldn't use language like that. He wouldn't want them to think badly about their uncle Sammy, as he'd inevitably be known. He didn't mind, though.

_horrible person. Then I was a mess of hallucinations and buckets of crazy . . . It all just didn't seem fair on you. So, that's why I'm hiding this illness. I don't want to burden you like I did before. I'm dealing, this time – I really am. I promise. I'm making it up to you. I figured I'd about made up for my mistakes already, but maybe this extra sacrifice will just make sure I leave for good with an overall positive set of memories to leave behind. Good to cancel out the bad. _

He sighed as he broached the topic of 'leaving for good', scrubbing at his face with his left hand, and squeezing his eyes shut to combat the dull thud of a headache he was beginning to develop. Maybe it was to do with the trials – or, maybe, it was just the pent-up emotion trying to burst out of its brain right through his skull. Urgh.

_That's one more thing I want to talk to you about. Don't – as in, DO NOT – try and bring me back. I don't mind if you bury me, salt and burn me, whatever. Just make sure you don't do anything stupid, Dean. And bury me with Mom and Dad. I don't care if you think it's cursed ground, I think it's fitting. If you have my body, it should be with them. I know it's a pain in the ass to drive from Lebanon to Greenville, but I've buried you in Illinois before now, so fair's fair. _

How could he make Dean see that this wasn't sad . . . Well, it _was_ kind of sad – if Dean ever read this letter, it would be because he was dead – but it didn't feel like a suicide note, or in any way mournful. He just wanted Dean to see. He wanted to say –

_I've made this decision, Dean. Don't blame yourself for what happened to me. As hunters go, I'd like to think I did more good than bad. I've reached thirty, too, which is a pretty big goal for one of us. While I didn't always enjoy hunting, it was always tolerable. After all, I got to see things that no one else would ever get to – that no one else would even believe existed. And I've killed them all. So I don't mind that this is what killed me, not a heart attack or any other kind of 'normal person' death, because_

Sam jumped as a tear rolled off his face and hit the paper with a dramatic splash. He had surprised himself: when did he start crying?

He wondered if the next part was implicit in his words, or if he needed to write it down verbatim. His brother wasn't the best at subtext sometimes, and he imagined that he'd want these words written down for the whole world to see, if this were Dean's letter to him:

_at least I got to spend this time with you. You're the best brother anyone could hope for. Even with your God-awful singing and your stupid pranks. _

_Don't come and visit me too often. I want you to have a career, now all the demons are (hopefully) locked away in Hell, not mope about some graveyard in east-Jesus nowhere. _

_I'm glad you'll get to read this, even though I'm not sure exactly what it is – whether it's a letter, or a will, or whatever. This is a pretty crappy will seeing as I don't really have anything to give to you: it's all yours, too, really. Just look after my books, and – of course, I don't need to say it, but take care of the Impala, too. Thank you, Dean. _

_Your brother, _

_Sammy_

Sam sniffed, and coughed a little embarrassedly, trying to erase any evidence of his tears from his face. But when his coughing sprayed tiny droplets of blood onto his hand, he froze. Had any got onto the letter?

He frantically searched the lined paper, looking for any trace of his suffering. This was _not _what he wanted. He didn't need Dean seeing the little red splotches and overwriting everything he'd just written with pain and self-hatred, after seeing the evidence of his malaise at the hands of the trials.

His heart rate slowed gradually as he found that he'd managed to keep the paper blood-free. Smiling in relief, he folded it up, and sealed it in an envelope, taping it up so it couldn't be tampered with. _This _was how he wanted Dean to think of him, if it came to a dramatic Death By Trials: happy, and thankful for his life, rather than hurting and alone.

He couldn't tell Dean about the letter, although it hurt that he might not find it. He would tuck it behind Dean's photograph of Mom later, when he could sneak into his room. He knew that, after his death, Dean would probably move away and that involved packing up his things, including the picture. If he survived and they never moved, however, Dean wouldn't displace the photograph, and he wouldn't find the letter. Sam could remove it if necessary.

But, as another hacking coughing fit plagued him while he stuffed the letter into his back pocket for the time being, he thought bleakly that there was little chance of that second eventuality.

At least Dean would understand now.

* * *

**_p.s. Any ideas for oneshots you'd like me to write? Let me know! _**


	2. Chapter 2

**_AN:_**_ okay so you all twisted my arm. Almost all the reviews for this story asked for a second chapter with Dean confronting Sam about the letter - honestly, I thought it might be a bit lame, but then with recent episodes I've decided that it would actually be pretty cool. _

_Anyway. This is for all of you that wanted it! I've included the letter at the beginning for a reminder (it's been a while). Cheers!_

_(p.s. - this second chapter is set after 8x20, Pac-Man Fever)_

* * *

_Dean. First of all, I'm sorry. I honestly wanted to come out of this alive. But we both know better than anyone that you can't always get what you want. _

_I'm writing this in late February. I'm sick and I know that I'll either complete these trials and live, or complete them and die – that's why I'm writing you right now. I need to explain that I wasn't lying to you by hiding this. It's just that, if you knew, you'd call the whole thing off – the trials, the responsibility of me saving your ass for a change_. _And honestly, Dean, I don't want you to suffer through this. _

_I guess we're about even now – I mean, I broke the world once, and I jumped into the pit to solve it. But even then when I came back, I was this horrible person. Then I was a mess of hallucinations and buckets of crazy . . . It all just didn't seem fair on you. So, this is why I'm hiding this illness. I don't want to burden you like I did before. I'm dealing, this time – I really am. I promise. I'm making it up to you. I figured I'd about made up for my mistakes already, but maybe this extra sacrifice will just make sure I leave for good with an overall positive set of memories to leave behind. Good to cancel out the bad. _

_That's one more thing I want to talk to you about. Don't – as in, DO NOT – try and bring me back. I don't mind if you bury me, salt and burn me, whatever. Just make sure you don't do anything stupid, Dean. And bury me with Mom and Dad. I don't care if you think it's cursed ground, I think it's fitting. If you have my body, it should be with them. I know it's a pain in the ass to drive from Lebanon to Greenville, but I buried you in Illinois, so fair's fair. _

_I've made this decision, Dean. Don't blame yourself for what happened to me. As hunter's go, I'd like to think I did more good than bad. I've reached thirty, too, which is a pretty big goal for one of us. While I didn't always enjoy hunting, it was always tolerable. After all, I got to see things that no one else would ever get to – that no one else would even believe existed. And I've killed them all. So I don't mind that this is what killed me, not a heart attack or any other kind of 'normal person' death, because __at least I got to spend this time with you. You're the best brother anyone could hope for. Even with your God-awful singing and your stupid pranks._

_Don't come and visit me too often. I want you to have a career, now all the demons are (hopefully) locked away in Hell, not mope about some graveyard in east-Jesus nowhere. _

_I'm glad you'll get to read this, even though I'm not sure exactly what it is – whether it's a letter, or a will, or whatever. This is a pretty crappy will seeing as I don't really have anything to give to you: it's all yours, too, really. Just look after my books, and – of course, I don't need to say it, but take care of the Impala, too. Thank you, Dean. _

_Your brother, _

_Sammy_

* * *

Dean didn't understand.

Sam wasn't, he didn't . . . Sam didn't hide things from him. Not anymore. Why the Hell would he write this? And why the Hell would he hide it? Was he allergic to trying to tell the truth?!

For the first time in his life, Dean regretted picking up a picture of his mom, smiling as it shone in the light of his bedroom, _his_ _safe, happy place_ – well, not so much anymore. He'd just found this, this – _thing_, catching his eye like a rat in a trap when he moved the photograph.

_Dean_. _First of all, I'm sorry_.

No, this wasn't – this was _not _acceptable. Typical Sam, over-dramatising what was basically a cough and a cold, maybe a bad case of mono or whatever-

He backed away out of his room, safely placing the photograph of his Mom back onto the frame where it sat (he didn't want her behind glass – he much preferred the picture easy to touch, to hold, to give him comfort at a second's notice), and turning to storm towards the war room.

He could feel his face burning with anger. _Righteous _anger, because how could Sam do this? How could Sam not have told him he wrote something like _this_?!

"Sammy," He growled as he walked in. He saw some open books on the old map-strewn table – his brother was around here somewhere. Sam had laid down his pen on his notebook – a clear sign that he'd gone off to go and find something in the library, a little further back into the bunker. He'd never chance a pen near the old books. Pencil only. _Nerd. _

"Sam, get here now," He tried again, trying to keep his voice level, but unable to stop fury from seeping into his words like hot water boiling over the rim of a pan. They were talking about this shit. Right_ now_.

His brother said nothing, though he could obviously hear him. Dean thought he heard his brother sigh from between one of the tall aisles of books, and some shuffling.

"Oh, you're not going to say anything? Well, _fine_. I found your little suicide note – which, by the way, is the only thing I can call it," He spat, "What the Hell happened to 'I see a light at the end of the tunnel', Sam?!" He yelled, frowning as he looked between the shelves.

He expected his brother to say something. But, clearly, he was in one of his silent and brooding moods. Which suited Dean just fine, because he was in a _loud and angry _mood.  
"I go to look at my picture of Mom, and _this _I what I get? You're chatting crap about where you want to be buried? About how I'm not _allowed _to try and bring you back? – Oh, and while we're on it, that's a freaking stupid idea so I'm not going to listen to it," He added.

He sighed, and tried to gather his calm once more, looking in on another aisle.  
"I just – I can't _believe _you wouldn't tell me about this. Late February? Sam, it's _May _– you've been hiding this for months . . . Sam?"

Still no sign of his brother. He approached the final aisle, glad he'd had this time to calm down – he was glad he hadn't been so hideously angry to his brother's face, or he might mistake it for him being disgusted in him. Truth was, he was just upset Sam hadn't told him about the letter – sure, if he'd given it to him as a 'just in case', he'd have probably been mad, too – but this was worse, somehow.

"Look, I know you've got a cold, or whatever. You're sleeping a bit more – that's fine. Hell, even looking not-so-hot right now is okay! You're still good to hunt, Sam – it's not as serious as you make out in here. I mean, it's a bit . . . Overdramatic, much?" Dean said with a smirk, looking down at the letter. It was ridiculous, really. It was . . .

". . . Sammy?" He asked in a small voice, as he rounded the corner.

He dropped the letter. Sam was on the floor, one arm thrown out and his head resting against it. The other one was folded up at his side, as was one of his legs; Dean's panic-addled mind helpfully supplied the fact that Sam had managed to manoeuvre himself into the recovery position before _something _had knocked him for six.

Dean thought of his brother several years ago, passed out in the panic room, maybe never to wake up. He thought of him writhing in pain as he suffered from withdrawal; drunk, and burying himself face-first into the pillows of a haunted mansion hotel; silently shedding shining tears in his sleep, lying on his side facing Dean, who knew he was having nightmares about Jessica burning on the ceiling.

But this wasn't because of demon blood or grief or any supernatural phenomenon. Not really.

This was Sam; this was Sam's body, betraying him.

All of these thoughts occurred in the half-second it took Dean to run to his little brother's side. He noted a trash can full of Sam's lunch (_trust Sam not to get any on the floor of his precious library_), and his brother's pale complexion, topped off with shadows under his eyes as steadfast and haunting as thick fog at night.

"Sam – Sammy?" He asked in an urgent voice, and pressed two insistent fingers against his brother's jugular vein, daring him not to have a pulse.

It was there.  
"Atta boy," Dean said, not realising his face was streaming with tears. If he _had_ noticed, he might have realised that they were the tears he'd been wanting to shed since he'd found and read Sam's letter; the ones he wouldn't allow himself, that he'd tried to replace with anger and a raised voice.

He bent down his head, and listened carefully for ten seconds . . . His brother was breathing, but each breath was a wheezing rattle, rather than the calm, relaxed breaths Sam took when he slept.  
"Sammy – you gotta wake up now, kiddo," Dean half-begged his brother, who still didn't rouse. He shook his shoulders, patting them hard. He rubbed his knuckles against his brother's chest, and received a low whine of protest in response. Dean thought that he could have cried – and then realised he already was. He sniffed, and wiped his face with the back of his hand, slightly embarrassed.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, opening his bloodshot eyes and gazing up at his brother as he came back to reality. He looked ashamed of himself; Dean wondered if he, somehow, already knew about him finding the letter. He cradled his brother's head with one of his hands all the same; tilted his head so it was parallel with his brother, who was still lying on his side.  
"Who else is this handsome, huh?" Dean replied with a quick smile; but it faded when his brother told him:  
"M'sorry," He rasped, his voice hoarse from emptying his stomach earlier.  
"What for?"  
". . . You found it, didn't you?" Sam asked, his expression miserable. He opened his eyes, but they stared off into space.  
"How did you-" Dean asked, frowning. How could Sam have possibly known that, if he'd passed out before Dean was in here?  
"I heard you – you said you found it, and I panicked, and I – uh, the trash-can-"  
"I saw, Sammy. We'll get a new one,"  
"And then my head – was pounding, I tried to answer, but I just sort of . . ." He trailed off, looking down. He tried to sit up, but his vision zoned out and became unfocussed for a moment, causing Dean to say:  
"Whoa – easy, tiger," Sam just sighed, taking his weakness as another failure.

"I'm sor-"  
"Enough of the _sorrys_, Sam," Dean interrupted, maybe a little too harshly, because Sam actually did shut up for once. Dean sighed, and sat up, leaning his back against the bookshelf in Sam's line of vision. His little brother managed to prop himself up on one elbow, as he listened to Dean:  
"I'm . . . I'm not mad you wrote it," He began, causing Sam to first raise his eyebrows, then lower them in confusion, "I just . . . I don't understand why you didn't give it to me right away,"  
"I didn't want you to read it," Sam replied, hissing as he sat up, slumped against the bookshelf opposite his brother. "And . . . I didn't want you to think I'd given up already. Oh, and – I . . . I remember how you felt last time I tried to – to have the 'in case we don't make it' speech with you,"

Dean actually smirked. The one fond memory he had of the day before he went to Hell was him and Sam, riding along in the Impala, wailing along to Bon Jovi. It was a pure, good memory; it was the result of Dean stopping Sam from saying his last goodbyes in full. His smirk turned to a grimace.

"Well . . . Yeah. You're right. I did think that, a little bit. Look, I get it, there's nothing wrong with wanting some insurance in case these trials . . ." He looked his brother's shaking, uncoordinated body up and down, ". . . In case they don't go so well for you. But there's a lot of crap in this letter that isn't right, Sam. A lot of stuff that isn't fair.  
"For one, the whole demon blood thing-"  
"Dean-"  
"No, Sammy. You paid your debt for that, a hundred freaking times over. You went to the deepest, worst circle of Hell for it. Then, you were soulless – then, you had Satan as your god-damned co-pilot! Which part of this is not _enough_? And then you go and volunteer yourself for these trials! I mean, when're you gonna say _Uncle_, Sam?! You don't have to accept this. You're not repaying any debt, and you don't have to taking this lying down,"

Sam was staring at the floor, but looked up at Dean at that last statement.  
". . . Screw destiny," He said shakily, with a small smile, "Right in the face,"

A smile tugged at the sides of Dean's lips, until it became uncontrollable, and he had to let it take over. _Sam remembered_.  
"We do this our own way," Dean finished the words he's said years ago, when all had last seemed lost.  
"Just like the Apocalypse," Sam confirmed, smiling and looking down as he remembered how freaking crazy their lives were, for the millionth time.  
"Yeah – man, they were the days, eh Sammy?" Dean asked in a mock-reminiscent tone.

Sam genuinely laughed, for the first time in a couple of months.

"C'mon," Dean said, standing and stretching out his muscles, before offering his hand to Sam. His brother took it, and pulled himself up with a stifled hiss. Despite that, he still managed to stand tall – taller than his brother, even on shaking, weakened legs. His smile still shone brightly, even if it was a little watered down; pale and wan. He pretended not to notice Dean kick the discarded letter under one of the bookshelves – out of easy reach, but not totally inaccessible.

Out of sight didn't necessarily mean out of mind, but it didn't matter. Because -  
"We've got work to do,"

* * *

_Just FYI, if you find someone passed out and alone, this is a pretty good estimation of what to do! (First look round for any signs of danger, then test their response to speech/pain, then their airways, breathing, and circulation - that's the ideal procedure)_


End file.
